The Playmakers (4 page)

She swung listlessly, her life expunged, her
heart beneath the perfect bosom broken, her joyous laugh silenced
forever.

CHAPTER TWO

When news of the death of Anne Whateley
reached William Shakespeare, he turned on his new bride-to-be in
blind fury.

Prior to that, in the intervening hours
between the ignominious declaration of his impending fatherhood at
age eighteen and the news of the suicide, Shakespeare had gone all
but silent. He had answered the queries of his parents - “How could
you let this happen?” and “How could you do this after all we have
done for you?” and “Didn’t we warn you about things like this?” -
with teenage monosyllabic grunts.

He had greeted the prodding jibes of Anne
Hathaway - “So, you thought you’d get away with it, did you?” and
“She was never your type,” and “No more wild times down the inn for
you, will there father-to-be?” - with snarls.

His face had turned ashen, his hands clammy,
his eyes dull.

But inside, his mind had been working
overtime.

Hold on,
he kept
telling himself.

Hold on, Will. Hold
on.

Hold on to the dream. The
dream that one day you will be back in the arms of Anne Whateley.
That you’ll hear the tinkle of the bell-like laugh again. That she
will hold you and kiss you and love you.
And stay with you forever.

Hold on to the dream,
Will, that one day this … this mess … will be sorted out; that
maybe this bitch of a woman is having us all on and she is not
really pregnant; that maybe she won’t carry the baby the full
distance. She’s bloody old enough as it is.

Hold on, Will, hold on.
That maybe we can persuade her to see Mrs Armitage down at the
apothecary to, you know, er, do something. Dad could lend me the
money and I could work hard to pay him back.

That maybe even after the
baby is born I will somehow get away, run away, fly away, into the
arms, and the laugh, and sensational bosom of Anne
Whateley.

That’s it. I’ll just fly
away. Like a little bird.

It might take a week. Or a
month. Or a year. Or two years.

But I’ll fly away, and
explain it all to Anne, my beautiful Anne, the real Anne, not this
awful Anne, and she’ll listen to me, and understand me, and take me
back, and love me forever.

Hold on, Will. Hold
on.

Hold on to the
dream.

But William Shakespeare’s little bird of
freedom came plummeting earthwards that next day when Anne’s uncle,
Christopher Whateley, appeared at the door, hat scrunched in hand,
staring at his boots, tears rolling down reddened cheeks into his
beard.

He delivered his gloomy message to the
Shakespeare family, mumbled something about, “Funeral Tuesday, but
don’t think it advisable you attend.” And fled.

Now there was no reason for Will to hold on
to the dream.

“You bitch!” Shakespeare screamed at Anne
Hathaway, his quivering, tear-stained face barely two inches from
hers. “You absolute bitch. Listen to me and listen well. You’ll
regret the day you forced me to marry you, because as far as I’m
concerned, from now on, you can expect absolutely nothing of me. Or
nothing from me!”

But if he thought this would force a back
down, a retreat, or even, God be merciful, that she might just
disappear magically out of his miserable life forever, then he was
wrong. Instead of backing away, Anne Hathaway leaned forward,
halving the already minuscule distance between their faces. And in
a whisper that dripped menace, hissed, “Listen, you spineless
little prick, don’t you dare threaten me. You knocked me up in a
haystack, and you will do exactly as you should, as my
husband!”

She stared deeper into his eyes.

“And you know why?” she continued, raising
her voice so his parents could hear every word. “Because the
deacons would be only too happy to lock you up in the stocks for a
few days to entertain the villagers, thus dragging the so-called
good name of Shakespeare through the mud.”

Rambling thoughts went through William’s
mind
. Heavens, I’m only a poor Catholic boy and I
didn’t mean to have my wicked way and put a bun in her ancient
oven.

There was silence.

John Shakespeare, trying to maintain some
semblance of control as master of his crumbling house, stepped
forward to pat his boy on the shoulder and head off public
ridicule.

“Son, I don’t think it would be very good if
you …”

“It’s all right, dad,” William replied
evenly, without taking his eyes off his adversary. “I
understand.”

The two stared, unblinking.

The only sound that could be heard was the
distressed sniffling of Mary Shakespeare.

“I will do it,” said Will ultimately and
quietly. “I will do it. I have no choice. I will marry you. But
listen, you screeching harridan, you think you’ve got the best of
me! I will be patient. That’s all you can expect. I will bide my
time, and wait for my moment. You hear? My moment!”

Thus it came about, the happy union of
William Shakespeare and Anne Hathaway.

And if the build-up had been traumatic, the
wedding was a disaster. The body language of the pair as they stood
before the altar suggested combatants rather than lovers, prompting
one guest to nudge his partner, nod towards them, and whisper,
“Bloody War of Roses all over again …”

The couple barely smiled during the vows,
pecked at each other’s cheek at the end, and sat stolidly at the
celebrations in silence.

As there had been no time, and the
circumstances were so acrimonious, Anne had not carried out the
usual tradition of brewing and selling bride’s ale to defray the
wedding expenses, adding further to their financial woes.

This did not deter William. Having caught the
eye of the waiter, an old friend from the Stratford Arms, he
latched on to every tankard of beer, goblet of wine, and tumbler of
brandy that came within reaching distance of the bridal table.

By the time it came for the dancing he was
stumbling.

By the time it came to make a speech, he was
mumbling.

By the time they got to share the marital bed
for the first time as Mr and Mrs Shakespeare, he was beyond
fumbling and bumbling.

He had passed out.

“Who gives a toss?” he said next morning,
nursing a hangover. “I’ve been there, know what’s it like, and
didn’t think much of it anyway …”

She hurled a pot at him, which missed him by
inches and crashed against the wall, making him wince. “That’s not
what you said when it was free and easy, with no complications, my
boy,” she screamed.

“Don’t … don’t … ooh … ahh …don’t shout,” he
pleaded. “Not only because I feel awful, but everyone will
hear.”

And that was true.

William being but a boy, and Anne a daughter
of a farming family and therefore not in line for hereditary or
other financial support, the pair had nowhere to live. John
Shakespeare had come up with something of a solution.

“After the wedding, you can live in the
garret above the leather works, until you get on your feet,” he
offered. “It’s not much, but it’s clean, and it’ll cost
nought.”

It was also in the main commercial
thoroughfare of Stratford, with two large windows opening onto the
street, perfect for letting conversations fly out and be picked up
by passers-by.

“I don’t care what they hear,” Anne shouted.
“The more it adds to the public humiliation of William Shakespeare,
famous outdoors lover and would-be leaver, the better.”

The floor of the garret was of bare boards
and the ceiling of thin shingles, held together by five A-frames of
strong oak beams, strategically angled so the unwary could catch
their temple on them at any time. At one end, a determined Mary
Shakespeare, doing her utmost to make the best of a bad situation
for her beloved son, had arranged a hanging curtain of the thickest
material to hive off a bedroom, “so you’ll at least get some
privacy.”

“Privacy didn’t seem to be much of an issue
when he was banging away in the haystack,” added his father
glumly.

Behind the curtain lay a rudimentary double
bed, and a small table. At the other end of the garret there was a
kitchen of sorts, with a small wooden bowl, some battered tin
plates and bowls, and a handful of knives and spoons, all on a tiny
bench. There was a small dining table, a brace of mixed chairs, and
a tiny footstool covered in embroidered leather, one of the first
pieces William had made as an apprentice. A temporary hearth had
been constructed out of stone, with a primitive chimney linked
through a leaking hole in the shingles.

The requirement that a trip had to be made
down a sharply-angled, rocking wooden ladder and through the
leather-works for supplies and essentials such as water soon became
a constant source of irritation between the newly-weds, especially
as Anne’s pregnancy rolled on and she became fatigued and washed
out.

“Go and get and some water,” Anne would say,
straightening up, and holding her hands at the base of her spine to
relieve the pressure on her back.

“Get it yourself.”

“I hate going down there,” Anne she would
reply. “All your father’s workers staring at me.”

“Well, don’t go down there, then. Don’t go
anywhere! Just stay up here and make my life miserable.”

Will spent the days in the factory, finishing
his apprenticeship stoically and with no drive or ambition.

His dreams of revolutionising the industry,
so naively and lovingly outlined to his parents a few weeks before
by Anne Whateley, were shattered.

Every time he saw a strip of thin leather,
the same cord that Anne had used to end her life in a cold, lonely
crofter’s shed because he had betrayed her, bitter tears would
flow.

His father’s workers, many of whom had known
young Will since he was a toddler, had to look away.

On those days, when he went back upstairs at
the end of work, he would sit moodily and stare into space,
oblivious of Anne’s constant verbal barrages directed at him about
his lack of care, lack of drive, lack of love.

One evening, he snapped out of this stare
into space, to find that he was a father.

A little girl, unaware of the turbulent role
she had played in her parents’ lives, was born on May 26, 1583, and
after much discussion, was named Susanna.

Unsure of what actually a father was meant to
do, Will stretched out a finger, watched as a little hand grasped
it, and whispered “She’s beautiful.”

His wife -
Yes,
Will
thought,
this woman who is the scourge of my life
and never given me one minute’s peace, is actually my wife
–
looked into his eyes, and for the first time in their brief and
tumultuous marriage, smiled at him.

It was the same smile she had given him the
day she had seduced the fumbling apprentice boy in the
haystack.

And for a few weeks, between that smile and
the arrival of the new little soul in the house, something
approaching civility suddenly appeared in their relationship,
bordering on affection, quite possibly love.

Susanna was a good baby, a happy baby, and
Anne felt fulfilled for the first time in her life. She felt good
that, despite the trauma surrounding it all, she had given breath
to a new life, the most rewarding thing a woman could do. She felt
triumphant she had proved that she was more than just a
hard-working, horse-riding toiler on her father’s farm and the
subject of fearful gossip about her overwhelming personality and
forbidding temper.

If she had to jump some young buck in the
haystack to achieve that aim, well, so be it.

Besides, she recollected, young William, whom
she had known as a family friend since he was six, certainly hadn’t
been reticent about it. After a struggle to get his breeches off,
it wasn’t long before his skinny little bottom was reflecting the
rays of the late afternoon sun of that warm August day, as he
pushed and shoved and wiggled and, by golly, by dint of his sheer
enthusiasm rather than experience, had somehow got her to climax, a
rare event around Shottery, at least for her, anyway. When it was
all over they both laid back in the hay and laughed as he told her
how when he was eleven and she was nineteen he used to lie on the
rug at the combined family picnic and try and look up her bloomers
and see what the mystery was all about.

“And now I know the answer,” he said that day
before pulling up his breeches and heading back up to the house.
“And it’s pretty good, too,” he had turned and added as he headed
into the sun.

Anne lay in the bed in the garret and started
to giggle at the memories. Maybe he was not so bad after all …